I have no mouth but I must scream

[Anonymous No.19959691]

Anyone else feeling like this? I feel like I need to let out an angry scream at the top of my lungs but I cant bring myself to do it.

My brain feels like its pressurised. There's a little boredom and depression in there too

I dunno man. I just want to feel happy but nothing works.

[Anonymous No.19959851]

>>19959691
I sometimes feel like ordering cup after cup of coffee, just to spill the searing hot contents into my lap onto my chest over my thighs. And whenever the coffee seeps through the fabrics draping over my decrepit carcass, I wish to take a little plastic piece of cutlery and ram it repeatedly into the damp wet stains that are left by the brown brew. I then want to turn to the rest of the small roadside café in which my mind has molten for the last fifteen minutes and shoot my stares through the next waiter that dares to cross my line sight. I will shoot my piercing stairs right through their chest, not out spite or lust for violence, but rather what else is there supposed to be done, when glaring cascades of petroleum pour out of the heavens every decisecond of the morning, just to burst into searing heat as the middays sun heats the vile liquid by early noon. What else is there left to do but to shoot piercing stares through the chests of the next best culinary staff. Burst, burst like the Petroleum, catch my stares as it pierces through that corporate dress shirt and apron of yours, burn as it peels of your skin and reveals glistening rainbow colours, like oil slicks on airfields. Burn as inside that hole in your chest is revealed and have finally pierced both the fabric of my pants and my undergarments right next to my groin with that little malformed piece of plastic cutlery. While inside your gaping chest I can see grey skyscrapers and irridescent trails of rainbow colored smog emerging amidst the space where undoubtedly your lungs may have resided in another time. Inside your gaping chest I see somebody staring out from a rooftop bar, with a half empty (or is it half full) non-descript brown cocktail in their hand. And while I make that briefest of connections, I know that man from West Connecticut wants to stab his eyes out and pour streams of sweet tears from that rooftop bar out onto the side of that grey skyscraper, out onto the inards of that gaping hole in the chest of that waiter, out onto the pavement of that roadside seating area I have found myself in, where it pools into deap blue oceans, not unlike those deep shades of blue not far of the coast of the Bretagne. And as I come to that conclusion I can feel the plastic cut my inner thigh and hand at the same time.

I hope your day gets better, I am having a great time in uptown Manhatten. We should meet up sometimes and exchange bodily fluids